Ghosts N' Stuff
by Silvite's Cry
Summary: Co-conspirators are always doomed to the lowest level of Hell. Pushing the T rating for language. Spoilers for the secret reports if you look between the lines.


**Written as a Secret Santa gift for _akibameow_ on Livejournal, requesting Minamimoto/Hanekoma with the prompt 'possession.'**

**DISCLAIMER: TWEWY AND ALL AFFILIATED CHARACTERS DO NOT BELONG TO ME, BUT TO SQUARE ENIX.**

* * *

They will be rebellious student and too-wise teacher, new and old, fleeting and timeless.

Minamimoto lives in the now, thinks only in the long-term when it benefits him and his devices. It's how he got up so far in the Reaper hierarchy, after all; in fighting for a chance at life, he didn't let his partner drag him down. In working as a Harrier, he didn't let himself get too distracted by the pure idiocy that Players often exhibited (if given to them, they probably couldn't even accomplish simple _pre-algebra_, the miscible digits), but only looked to get what he wanted. Things for the mathematician, now that he was an Officer, had grown painfully _boring._ He needed a new challenge. Something to conquer, make his own.

Hanekoma lives in the now, thinks only in the long-term when it benefits him and his devices. It's how he got up so far in the Angel hierarchy, after all; in fighting for a chance to really do what he loved, he toiled tirelessly to make sure that everything in Shibuya went smoothly as a Reaper, as a low-level Angel. In working as a low-level Guardian in the HG, he didn't let himself get distracted by inter-planar travel, and all of the benefits that came with an Angel finally earning full power over their Wings, but worked towards planting himself in Shibuya, spreading good feeling and inspirational messages to it's people. Things for the barista, now that he was a higher-ranked Angel and had earned the job of Producer, had grown painfully _boring. _He needed a new outlook. Something to teach, mold into shape.

It was nothing more than a chance encounter, that time at the Udagawa mural, when all was quiet and late night was melting into early day. The sky was a deep velvet, and the air was too cold for someone to be tagging effectively without their hand shaking from shivers.

Of course, that's not what Minamimoto saw at that moment; instead, a man of relatively average height (read, shorter than him), dressed in a collared shirt and slacks, was painting the charcoal black walls of Udagawa with spray paint of a vivid red hue. He had a scarlet rag tied around his head, covering his mouth and nose so as to avoid intoxicating fumes; even in the inky blackness of the waning night, he still wore shades. But his hands... despite the December cold, the man's hands were steady.

He looked familiar.

"Hectopascal!" Minamimoto called out, choosing to step towards this too-strange man. There was no recognition in his actions, as the spray came out from the bottle's nozzle in a steady fashion. No movement, no indication that he had heard him.

Let it be known that Minamimoto had _very little patience_ for those that chose to ignore him; after all, they were the only two here, the probability that he hadn't heard him was deep in the negatives. However, instead of repeating his exclamation, he chose to go up behind the man, smiling wickedly to himself. For a fleeting moment, Minamimoto wondered if his bullets could rip through planes, possibly make mincemeat out of this man. He didn't _seem_ like anything special.

Just like that, a gun was up to the painter's head, finger on the trigger, gun cocked.

"Gonna ignore me now, hexadecimal?" Minamimoto breathed, hand steady. The spray paint stopped flowing.

"Now, now," The man breathed, voice easy-going and tone relatively relaxed, considering there was the barrel of a six-chambered revolver pressed against his temple. "Don't be hasty. I could be a man with a wife and family."

Minamimoto sneered. "You think I give a factoring digit? You talk to a dead man." He said in low tones, adrenaline pumping. He could never do _anything_ like this as a Harrier Reaper. "Beg for your existence, and six bullets might not fix themselves permanently in your brain."

What came out of the stranger's mouth left was the last thing that Minamimoto had calculated: laughter.

This man was _laughing._

_At __**him.**_

Before he knew what was going on, his back was against wet red paint, his gun was somehow in the stranger's hand, and the rag that was on his face, blocking out the paint fumes, was being wrapped around his head, blocking his vision.

"Clearly," the stranger said, tugging on the ends of the rag and making sure that it was secure. "You don't think before you act. Might be the death of you, you know."

He was _mocking him._

"Now, now, what is it that you wanted again? Something to conquer? Sorry, kid, but you're not getting that."

It's like he could read his-- _wait just a factoring minute._

"What in Avogadro's name are you--"

All of a sudden, teeth had fixed themselves into his neck, and the stranger's mouth was sucking on his skin unceremoniously. Fuck, it was uncomfortable as shit, never mind the shots of pain running down his spine, focusing in his pelvic reg-- he just couldn't get it together, could he? This was _not _supposed to arouse him, no way in hell.

"Just relax," the stranger murmured against his skin, lips brushing over a newly forming mark. "You got yourself into this."

"Like _hell _I--"

And his teeth were on his neck again, on the other side, sucking just as harshly as he was before. He wasn't trying to draw blood, Minamimoto could tell that much. Still, his body ran too hot from the adrenaline, from the fury at being humiliated like this, from the pleasure being derived from his actions...

Oh, hell, he would have said something akin to "get the factoring hell off of me before I rip out your spleen," but that scarlet rag somehow was untied by the man's free hand and stuffed in his mouth. He was up against this wall, paint spreading into the back of his jacket, all protests muffled by red fabric...

Why the _fuck_ was this a turn-on?

He opened his eyes, cast his gaze down to the perpetrator. Yellow hues met deep coffee brown depths, and his breath just seemed to stop short.

_He'd known this was going to happen all along._

And just as suddenly as it had happened, the other male backed off, grinning in a very cat-like fashion, the gun still nestled in his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Steadily, the gun rose, barrel aiming inbetween the other's eyes.

"I know that this won't hurt you. I hear quite a bit about you from Kitaniji, from Josh." He breathed, hand steady even in the December cold, even as Minamimoto ripped the rag from his mouth, seeming to sputter in indignation.

"Then why in _factoring hell--"_

"Meet me at the WildKat. Cat Street. You should know the place." He said breezily, still holding the gun up to Minamimoto's face. "If you want something to conquer, I can show you how to do it."

And just like that, the man disappeared in a quick flash, the gun hitting the pavement with a resounding clatter. The mathematician stared at the empty space in front of him, completely dumb-founded, picking up his revolver after a few long moments. In his other hand still rested the red cloth that belonged to the painter... perhaps he left it as insurance.

The man had left two marks on Minamimoto's neck. With a sordid grin, Minamimoto tied the cloth around his head, letting it serve as a crude bandanna. His thumbs pressed into the marks on his neck, and somehow he knew...

Somehow he knew that the painter was much more than he appeared to be.

Every master needed an apprentice, right?


End file.
